burning blades
by creachers
Summary: fun with maiko!
1. parting

His wife was leaving the palace walls, and His Formidable Highness Firelord Zuko felt his heart constrict in his chest like a brutal fist.

He watched her, poised within an imperial carriage drawn by two of the tamest ostrich horses he had ever encountered—gifts from Earth King Kuei, who, the Firelord was happy to hear, was finally settling into leadership after his long-traveled hiatus. Zuko had handpicked these gentle creatures for today's venture, but their inclusion did little to calm him.

He watched her, and she watched him back, the impressive carelessness she had taken years to perfect rolling off her in waves. One pale hand rested atop the firm roundness of her belly, and the relaxed smirk she wore said more to him than any linguist could possibly comprehend. She was resplendent.

His shoulders stiffened as her smirk grew. He was _not_ ready for this.

"Check the harnesses," he said to General Ba, eyes never straying from the vision of (completely, infuriatingly stubborn) loveliness in the carriage.

Ba, barely suppressing an eye twitch, turned smartly to his royal commander. "Your Highness, I feel I must inform you that my men have checked and rechecked the beasts' harnesses a good four times, and..."

"Check them _again_," Zuko cut in, silencing the general. His tone conjured images of steel blades drawn through flame. Razor-edged and seething.

Ba nodded coolly and signaled the two soldiers beside the carriage, who expertly hid sighs of exasperation as they once more went about their orders.

"Will you leave them alone?" Mai's voice floated across the courtyard, smooth and level as the water in the turtle duck pond. His stony gaze snapped back to her, but not before catching Ba disguise a smile. Of course she had chosen the exact moment he'd looked away to speak. It was all part of the game.

Well, she wouldn't be getting away so easily. Everything would be painstakingly accounted for and readdressed until the ends of the earth, if need be. Because he loved her and he was the Firelord and he _said so_.

He squared his shoulders and began closing the distance between them.

The smug expression on her face dissolved into something warmer as he approached. "I'm pregnant, Zuko. Not porcelain."

The fist around his heart squeezed again, but in a clumsy, acutely delightful sort of way. "You," he murmured, stopping before her window, "are far more precious than any porcelain."

"You," she replied, reaching down a palm to sweetly caress his cheek—right below his scar—"are freaking out."

Zuko sighed and grasped her hand in his own, brushing his lips across her knuckles. His eyelids fluttered briefly at the scent of her. "I worry. Say hello to Katara and our always-busyAvatar for me."

"We will, we will," interjected a restless Ty Lee from the seat facing the Firelady. Her eyes rolled beneath the elaborate Kiyoshi war paint. "And nobody's coming near your sweetheart _or_ the little tummy-heir while I'm here, Mr. Firelord Nitpick. So can we please maybe _go_ now?"

Mai genuinely smiled for the first time that morning. The amusement in the deep gold of her eyes transfixed him. "You heard her. I have the best. You covered everything."

"Everything?" He didn't believe her.

"Everything," she deadpanned, blinking slowly. "Eleven times."

He lifted his fingers to touch her face in return, and they stayed frozen in that moment for what seemed like eternity. It still wasn't enough, not for all he'd fought through for this girl, this warrior. The time they'd spent apart was merely a shadow on the road at their backs, now—one of many memories the Firebender preferred not to revisit. He had no want to miss her so deeply again. His son or daughter was curled snug inside her, and oh, how he wished he could go along. A sunset away from her would seem like forever, as well. He knew.

Ty Lee clicked her tongue, flipping her braid over her shoulder. "You guys are too cute!"

The look Mai shot her friend was positively venomous. Spell broken, Zuko stepped back from the carriage, fingers threading through his wife's as they separated. "Be safe."

She reclined into the plush of the lavish bench, shaking her head as though he were still a ridiculous teenager. Perhaps, to her, he always would be. "Yes, _dear_." Then, softly, "I love you."

The fist squeezed so tightly, he thought his heart might burst. "I love you, too." He waved to Ba, who gestured ecstatically to the driver. The ostrich horses pawed the ground, and the carriage started toward the walls' grand gate.

But not before Zuko checked the harnesses one last time. Personally.


	2. wonder

She wakes with a jarring sense of singularity—something she hasn't opened sleep-squinted eyes to in a good ten or twelve years. The feeling, she decides with a yawn, has become no more agreeable. She has grown accustom to the solid weight of him, sprawled beside her, sometimes breathing deeply, often restless, but always so very warm. Warm like a hearth, warm like a fond memory that strolls in for an unexpected visit. Warm like belonging. A warmth that means _hers._

The pale hand—her hand—that has somehow crept across the bed is nearly translucent in the stark moonlight. She stares hard at it, but the results are the same. Nothing but long-cooled silk linens and a glaring absence. Her slender fingers twitch, and she puzzles. When Zuko slips away unnoticed, especially from her, events rarely bode well. Hazy frustration leaps to join in her loneliness.

The bedclothes glide along her bare legs as she grudgingly sits up, and she shivers. One of many large windows is ajar to a temperate, Fire Nation summer breeze, but it makes no difference. Everything is cold now.

Rising, she finds her robe and shrugs it over her naked skin, the usually comforting steel of a concealed blade (_yes,_ in her robe) painfully frigid and currently unwanted against her hip. She scowls; this is not helping.

Some sort of night bug complains loudly from outdoors, mocking her as she crosses the room. She throws the window an acidic look and sweeps into the wide, dimly-glowing foyer, closing the door slowly and soundlessly behind her.

Two guards stand at the dividing line of the lavish hallway intersection, and one takes a questioning step toward her, mouth opening to offer assistance. She notes that neither appears surprised, as if they have been counting the minutes until she awoke with the intent of trailing His Highness into the depths of the palace. She smirks gently and holds up a hand before the guard can speak, allowing him to reclaim his post with a smile and a curt nod. It is nice to have help who understands you.

And your ridiculous husband.

_Now. If I were a grumpy, insomnia-ridden Firelord, where would I be?_

And because she knows him so well, she turns right and pads purposefully down the hall, the long, ornately-patterned rugs soft beneath her bare feet. Torchlight jumps and scatters flickering shadows along the dark walls. The fabric of the robe swirls like water at her ankles. She folds her arms and quickens her pace.

Soon, the desired doorway comes into view. It is open very slightly, as she knew it would be, and a light fainter, even, than that of the hall dances inside. She blinks once, twice, and pushes the door inward with nary a creak.

He sits in the rocking chair with his back to her, regal shoulders yielding, bathed in her silhouette. She squints in the quarter-brightness, taking in the thoughtful posture, the shaggy, unbound hair falling past the nape of his neck. Her lips quirk, and she goes to him, brushing an affectionate palm over it.

"Zuko?" she whispers. "Is everything alright?"

There is no answer, and she notices, suddenly breathless, how grave his face is. The single candle casts halting illumination across the plane of his scar and reveals the pinpricks of immeasurable wonder alive in his eyes. Mai follows his gaze to the antique crib, where their two-week-old daughter sleeps as only an infant can, and when (heart tight with love and pride) she looks again to him, those solemn, golden eyes are staring endlessly back into hers, more vivid than any candle flame. His cheeks are damp.

"I...," he says, barely a whisper, and then pauses for a shaky breath. His low voice is even raspier than usual, and thick with an emotion so powerful, Mai hesitates to name it. "I want to give her _everything_. I just want... to be everything she needs. Always."

In this moment, he does not sound like the Firelord. He sounds broken, he sounds scared. He sounds like the most devoted father to ever live, and, Agni help her, she feels her throat constrict. Moisture threatens the corners of her eyes, and all of a sudden she is bundled onto his lap, his upturned face in her hands, her thumbs dashing his tears away.

She curses herself for what this wonderful man does to her and presses a firm kiss to his forehead, leaning back to murmur, "You will be."

It is not a question. Not for her.


End file.
